


sought thee, sung thee, dreamed thee

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeyne comes awake to his mouth on hers, to the sweet weight of him, already familiar, anchoring her body into the feather ticking of her bed. He smells of sweat and blood and leather, of battle, and he’s hard against her, hard and ready, and it sends a shiver down to her toes that she no longer needs to dream the feel of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sought thee, sung thee, dreamed thee

He comes to her in her dreams, as he did before they were wed, before they ever lay together. Back when she was still a girl and a maid, her thoughts dwelling indecently on the young wolf King lying sick and fevered in her father’s castle. Her imagination is no longer as limited as it once was, when she dreamed of mostly innocent kisses and embraces, of touches that grew hazy and vague in the uncharted territory past her experience. The touches that have since become familiar to her at Robb’s hand are worlds away from her chaste imaginings of before; the heat of his mouth, the press of his fingers in places that still make her blush, the push and yield of their bodies that has the power to quicken her breath and turn her knees to water even in mere remembrance. She dreams of him, in sleep and waking, and when he’s away she counts the seconds until he returns to her, whether in dreams or in flesh.

But now is no dream. Jeyne comes awake to his mouth on hers, to the sweet weight of him, already familiar, anchoring her body into the feather ticking of her bed. He smells of sweat and blood and leather, of battle, and he’s hard against her, hard and ready, and it sends a shiver down to her toes that she no longer needs to dream the feel of him.

He's never done this before. He's kept her carefully apart from this other life of his, this life of war and politics and strategy. With her he's been excruciatingly kind, unfailingly gentle. A lord in every aspect, pleasing and almost mild except for when he comes to her bed at night. But this is the first time he’s come to her blooded and exhilarated after battle, and he’s almost another person entirely. 

Even the look of him is different. He has shed his armor, but not his mail, not the heavy leather jerkin and breeches beneath. They make him seem larger, more formidable. Nothing like the almost slight boy she'd first met whose skin had burned beneath her hands, who had lain diminished and small in the expanse of her bed. Nothing about him is small now. He looms above her, his large hands spanning her waist with his thumbs touching over her navel, his tongue filling her mouth, his big thigh crowding hers apart until he's pressed into the cradle of her hips, so hard she can feel him even through the leather of his breeches. His mouth is demanding on hers, as one big hand covers her breast in a rough caress while the other bands her throat, squeezing hard enough to set her to trembling, so violently that she can’t stop, not even when he remembers himself and pulls away, looking appalled.

“My lady,” his voice scrapes over her skin and nerves. “ _Jeyne_ , I’m sorry, I shouldn’t- I’m frightening you.” A true lady would nod and shrink away, would allow him to gentle and soften his touches. To fall back into old and accepted roles. Jeyne has no thought of being a true lady. She shakes her head, the motion sending her unbound hair sliding over the pillow, over his hand that’s still hot and insistent at her throat, despite his hesitation.

“Oh no,” she tells him, “no, please,” and she pulls him down, parts her thighs wider, gasping at the sweet friction when he surges against her with a groan. His mail is still cold from the night air outside – he must have ridden for hours, must have left even before she received the raven telling of his victory – and she shivers at the feel of it on the bare skin of her arms. It snags on her shift, the tearing of fabric sounding out as ragged as their breathing. He pulls back with a curse to wrestle the mail over his head before falling upon her again.

“Gods,” he groans, moving his hips in a manner so frankly sexual that it steals every bit of breath from her lungs. “Couldn’t wait to get back.”

“Robb,” she pants.

“Wanted to fuck you, needed to be inside your sweet cunt.”

“ _Robb_.” Her voice skitters up into a whine, a tight, desperate sound forced from the back of her throat. He’s never spoken to her thus, never come to her so unhinged and unleashed. It’s shocking. It’s violently exciting. Her insides feel like molten metal.

“Let me inside you, sweet lady.” Thoughtlessly, her body responds, her knees spreading shamelessly wide to accommodate him, her heels on the backs of his thighs pressing insistently, hard enough to bruise. Distantly, she hears herself whimpering, saying please, please, please, oh _please_. She wears no smallclothes beneath her nightshift and the feel of his fingers inside her is a sweet shock, a feeling she’ll never grow accustomed to, she knows, no matter how often it happens. He drops his head to her breastbone, his beard a rough scrape along her tender skin even through her shift. “Hot,” he rasps against her, moving his mouth over her breast, his tongue deftly teasing her nipple through cloth so thin as to be no barrier at all before retreating far too soon. “So hot for me, Jeyne, so wet, my lady, my Queen.” The words are crude and tender all at once. They inflame her, force another choked whimper from her throat. She’s mindless, desperate, her whole body one great, red blur of feeling.

Somehow his jerkin and breeches are gone, though his mouth and hands never seemed to leave her body. Her shift is bunched around her waist, his elbows pin her hair to the mattress, she can’t get him close enough, hold him tightly enough. When he pushes into her, it’s not gentle or careful; she’s jerked up the bed with the force of his thrusts, her shoulders pulling at the linen sheets beneath her. It would hurt if it didn’t feel so horribly, wonderfully good. She shatters apart, clenching around him, feeling pleasure so deeply in her bones that she can’t even cry out, her mouth stretching open soundlessly, and still he keeps moving, driving into her until the tension gathers in her body again. She wants to scream. She wants to cry.

She’d cried on their wedding night, not for pain or fear – it was too late for either – but out of loss, in mourning for her girlish dreams of love. She thinks now that maybe that was what always had him treating her so gently, like she was made from spun glass rather than blood and bones and muscle. That morning he had bowed his head before her, had professed his regret and apologies for the night before, though they were the last things she’d wanted to hear. "We'll marry," he'd said, "Right away." She'd only stared at him, feeling sad and small and confused. Strange, how the exact thing she'd wanted wasn't at all how she'd intended things to be. The ceremony was rushed and subdued, no one holding any illusions about its purpose. It wasn’t until they were in their chambers that she'd begun to cry, hot, fat tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and trailing under her chin until he kissed them away, took her to what had been her marriage bed and made love to her until she could almost forget he was wedding her out of duty and honor rather than love.

There is no duty or honor in their bed now; such impulses could find no traction here. Everything is hard and hot and needy, thrumming with the heavy pulse that throbs between them like a great heartbeat, driving their pace, catching up their bodies to move instinctively in matching rhythms. She finds release again, faster than she ever thought she could, and she holds him, binds herself to him in the only way she knows how until he spills hot within her.

Each time he wakes in the night, he takes her again, dragging her up from sleep to ride atop him with her hair a curtain around their faces, pulling her to her hands and knees and setting his teeth to the nape of her neck like they’re mating animals, the sound of their bodies coming together loud in the hush of the hours before dawn. Sleep doesn’t slow the rush of his blood or diminish the fires roused in him by battle. Dreams blur with waking, until she can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. In the morning, he’ll be himself again, perhaps. He’ll treat her gently, carefully. But he’s left his marks on her, tiny cuts from his mail, bruises from his hands and mouth. She hopes he’s left a child within her as well.

When she dreams of him, it will be like this. She’ll dream of him like this forever.

 

_title from Dulcinea from Man of La Mancha _


End file.
